


Sherlollipops - Kicking Butt and Taking Names

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [112]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Molly is a BAMF, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post HLV. Jim Moriarty gets more than he bargained for when he takes Molly and Sherlock prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Kicking Butt and Taking Names

**Author's Note:**

> Sammykatz on ff.net requested: My favorite story request. Kick butt, strong. Brave intelligent Molly. I know I've asked before, but I could really use another of these. Life has punched me in the heart lately.
> 
> The T rating is for violence, nothing too graphic.

“Molly! Mol-ly! Wake u-up!”

The sing-song voice cut through the darkness that had enveloped her mind, bringing her unwillingly back to consciousness. She blinked and coughed, wondering why her mouth felt so dry and her head so fuzzy…then it all came rushing back. The message from Sherlock. The hurried cab ride to Baker Street. Using the key he’d given her to open the door, dashing up the stairs to his flat…then pain, and darkness until that horribly familiar voice sounded in her ears.

Jim Moriarty. The man himself, back from the dead. So the broadcast hadn’t been a hoax after all, despite what the government had assured everybody. Imagine that.

“Sherlock said you shot yourself in the head,” she croaked as she looked him over for signs of past injury or plastic surgery. She blinked a little to try to clear her vision when he seemed to want to waver into two Moriartys in front of her – not a sight she’d ever want to see. She started to shake her head, wincing as pain lanced through her skull at the movement. Oh yes, someone had bashed her over the head when she was in…

“Sherlock! Where is he, what’ve you done with him?” she demanded, looking around wildly in spite of the continuing pain. She couldn’t move more than her head, since at the moment she was tied to a chair, arms and legs both. The room she’d awoken to was dark and dingy, cement floor and cement block walls and nothing but the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling to light it. A cellar of some kind, with the small, high windows blocked up, piles of crates and other debris littered around the edges, details sparse in the deep shadows.

Seeing no one but herself and Jim Moriarty, Molly glared up at him. “Where’s Sherlock?” she repeated, hating the desperation in her voice but unable to hide it. She never could keep her emotions hidden from – well, anyone, to be honest. Certainly not anyone as clever as the man currently holding her captive – her, and presumably Sherlock as well.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear Moriarty’s response. “Oh, don’t worry about Sherl, Molls. He’s here. Or will be soon. He put up more of a fight than you did when I sent my men to fetch him, and I’m afraid they were feeling a teensy bit put out about it.” He stuck his lower lip out in a parody of a pout. “So it’s taking him longer to wake up than I had planned.” His expression brightened at the sound of a door opening somewhere behind her. “Oh, good! There they are now! Bring him right over here, boys, Molly can’t wait to say hello!”

She thought her heart was going to stop when he was literally dragged over by two oversized goons. You didn’t need to be a deductive genius to recognize that they’d been hired for their brawn rather than their brains. Or to see how much they’d enjoyed beating the crap out of Sherlock, who was bloodied and bruised and only barely conscious. Moriarty snapped his fingers and the goons let Sherlock drop to the floor where he landed with a groan.

“Let me help him,” she pleaded, straining at her bonds, unable to tear her eyes away from the injured man collapsed on the filthy floor, practically at her feet. She looked up at Moriarty fearfully. “Please, Jim, at least let me see how badly he’s been hurt!”

She shot a venomous glance at the two goons, both of whom ignored her completely. Moriarty simply grinned at her for a minute before nodding sharply. “Sure, why not? One last chance for you to cop a feel before you both die – oh yeah, I’m definitely killing the pair of you,” he added when she gave him a panicked stare. “Him for being, well, _him_ , and you for not being who I thought you were.” He stepped over Sherlock’s inert form, pulling out a switchblade. He clicked the button and the blade erupted with a _shick_ that made Molly wince. She held still as best she could while Jim cut the zip ties holding her to the chair, then stepped back again. “Take a last look, Mollywobbles. Maybe you’ll even get him to kiss you good-bye.”

She ignored him as she rubbed furiously at her wrists and ankles before dropping to her knees and leaning over Sherlock’s supine form. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” she asked softly as she cradled his head in her hands, being careful not to move him too much.

His eyes shot open and met hers before flicking downward. Toward his coat pocket. Molly heard Moriarty telling the goons to wait outside, waiting until she heard the door shut before pretending to pat Sherlock down to assess the severity of his injuries. He groaned as she made her way down to his side – theatrically but she doubted it was all acting. When she reached the pocket in question, Sherlock rolled onto his side and began talking. Loudly. Keeping Moriarty’s attention on himself as he spewed out deduction after deduction as to how his adversary had managed to fake his own death.

“Boring, wrong, wrong, wrong,” Moriarty trilled when Sherlock speculated that the person who’d died had been either an identical twin or someone given extensive plastic surgery in order to look like him. “Nope, it was me on the roof, Sherl, just like it was you. Didn’t I tell you we were the same person? Of course we both had contingency plans in place!” He gave Molly a sly look. “Didn’t we both like to use the same woman for our own purposes?”

“I never used Molly,” Sherlock snapped, lunging up at Moriarty and attempting to bring him to the ground. The other man easily avoided his weak attempt, laughing as he did so. Panting, Sherlock leaned on his hands and knees, still glaring up at his foe. “Not like you did, anyway. Not to try to hurt and humiliate her.”

“No, you just complimented her to get access to bodies you had no business looking at,” Moriarty sneered, his attention firmly and completely on the man he believed to be utterly at his mercy.

Seeing her chance, Molly kicked her left foot out, sweeping Moriarty off his feet and eliciting a shout of surprised rage from him. Without hesitating she threw herself on top of him, holding the scalpel she’d fished out of Sherlock’s coat pocket to his throat. “If you think for one minute I won’t use this on you, you’re wrong,” she snarled as he stared at her, an expression of mingled outrage and admiration on his face. 

Two seconds later the door burst open, and Molly was relieved to see John and Mary Watson charging into the cellar, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan hard on their heels. Moriarty’s two goons were being wrestled into handcuffs by a quartet of Kevlar-clad police. She gladly surrendered her scalpel to Sally while Greg manhandled Moriarty into his own pair of handcuffs. As he was led away, he turned his head and grinned at her. “Nice job, Miss Mouse, can’t say I expected you to have the nerve to try something like that!” Then he was gone, and she turned her attention back to Sherlock.

Who, it seemed, was reluctantly allowing John and Mary to examine him. “I’m fine,” he grunted as Sally ushered the EMTs into the room, gently pulling Molly aside to make room for the wheeled gurney.

Once he was (very unwillingly) loaded up and strapped in, he raised himself on one elbow and reached out to catch Molly by the arm. “Ride with me?” he asked, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

She glanced uncertainly at John and Mary. “Don’t you want John?” she asked. 

“He’ll see me at the hospital, I won’t let any of those other quacks examine me,” was his impatient reply. “He’s not what I need.”

Oh, surely she wasn’t misunderstanding the tender way he said those words? Taking a chance, she placed her hand over his. “What do you need?” she asked, heart beating fast as she waited for his answer.

“You,” he said, smiling softly. “Only you.”

That was all the answer Molly needed; blushing slightly at the knowing smiles John and Mary – and Sally! – were giving her, she held Sherlock’s hand in hers as he was wheeled to the ambulance.

Jim Moriarty wasn’t the only one to be surprised by someone today.


End file.
